The NoteA Story by SamSim27How do people live with guilt?Gerry
stepped back to admire his work, he’d just added the last coat of paint to what
would be his new bedroom. After 6 months of tiresome painting, building, fixing
and rearranging, he had finally finished. His new flat was ready, tomorrow he
would bring the last box of his belongings and close the door on his painful
past, ready to start anew. New home, new neighbourhood, and new friends. No more
smiles filled with pity, no more sympathetic nods or hugs dripping with regret.
Gerry longed for a normal conversation about sports, or the weather or anything
that didn’t involve empty, pointless apologies. Friends and family apologising
for something that they have no obligation to be sorry about. Friends and
strangers, alike, trying desperately not to draw attention to the unsightly
scar on his face and have conversations that don’t revolve around the terrible
events that have left him alone. Gerry turned
and watched his reflection in the mirror as he traced the moon-like scar with
his forefinger. He knew he would still be asked questions about his scar, wherever
he went there would be questions. It’s very difficult to hide the fact that you
have a facial disfigurement, especially when it manifests itself in a thick,
raised purple line running from your eyebrow to your chin. But he could make up
whatever story he wanted, something heroic, something funny, anything but the
truth. “Right, let’s
stick this up in the loft, then I think I’ve earned myself a beer.” Gerry
picked up his toolbox and headed for the open loft hatch. As he placed
down the toolbox, just inches inside the loft, he noticed an envelope pinned to
a wooden beam. He reached for it and sat on the top step of the rickety loft
ladder. Every hair
on Gerry’s body instantly stood on end. “Surely not,
how the…” His words trailed off mid-sentence, as though he had lost the ability
to speak. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and walked, with shaky steps,
to the kitchen. He cracked
open a beer and chugged half of it down in seconds, placing a second on the
kitchen table. He threw the envelope down on the table and took a seat, never
once lifting his eyes from the familiar handwriting that stared back at him. The words ‘I’m
Sorry’ were taunting him from the yellowing paper. Gerry grabbed the
envelope and ripped it open vigorously. He read the note aloud, as though
hearing the words would make them easier to digest. If you are reading
this, then you have moved into my girlfriend’s old flat. I hope you have fixed
the back door, it’s not the most sturdy door you’ve ever seen, or used for that
matter. I do not know who
you are, and you have no idea who I am or more importantly where I am. My name is John. What
you are about to read is slightly disturbing, but I sincerely urge you to read
it to the end. Selfishly, I just need to have confessed this to someone and you,
my friend, are that unlucky soul. I am writing this on 27th August
2014. Four days ago, I gave a mad man the identity and location of my best
friend. This mad man was threatening my job, my reputation and my relationship.
I made a bad decision. I cheated on my girlfriend. I was having another
relationship behind her back for around 5 months. This mad man, unfortunately
was my secret lovers’ husband. He threatened to expose my relationship with his
wife to everyone I knew, he had pictures he said he would send them to
everyone. I was frantic. He offered me a way out. He said that if I met him and
fought with him then he would forget the whole thing. I’d seen this guy’s
picture, he was an absolute beast, I would have been killed. My friend, well,
he was a boxing champion, I reckoned that he could take the guy. The plan was, I
would give this mad man my address, he would come to my house post the pictures
through the letter box and then come through the back door to fight me. So, I gave
him my friends address, thinking he would put up a good fight and then I could
come round after and collect the pictures and help with the clean-up. I didn’t know his
wife would be home, I didn’t know his son would be there. I didn’t think this
mad man would turn up with a machete. Well, as I am
writing this, my best friend is fighting for his life in hospital. His wife and
son are dead. And I am leaving the country, I can’t live with the guilt, I can’t
ever look him in the eyes again. I can’t even tell him what really happened. Everyone
thinks it was just a random attack. How can I tell him that it was my fault the
man was there? How can I tell him that the reason his family are dead is
because I couldn’t own up to cheating on my girlfriend?
RIP Joanna and
Freddie. I’m sorry, Gerry! © 2017 SamSim27Author's Note
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Added on February 14, 2017Last Updated on February 14, 2017 |